The Stand Beside

As of tonight, there are forty-five days left until H and O wed. As maid of honor (or best woman, or – as a colleague called me today – The Stand Beside), I’ve been working on my toast. Most of my brainstorming takes place as I drive up and down the slopes of Haleakala on my way to and from home. I envision myself standing before a crowd of family and friends, H and O beside me, and as I imagine what I'll say first, I inevitably begin to cry. That’s as far as I’ve come. Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.

There is not one particular reason for my tears. I suppose the most obvious explanation is that I feel I’ll be standing in, so to speak, for both of my parents. There’s no getting around that one. But also, it is a rite of passage, and rites of passage by definition mark milestones and reveal what is valued in a culture and to a people. As I envision H's and O’s celebration, I can almost see the silhouettes of those people, our people, who have come before them to this particular rite; they gather around H & O, smiling, nodding encouraging, welcoming them. And in 0 to 60...my tears.

Three years ago on the Ides of March, H and I, on our separate islands, each went out with friends. That evening, I met my young, sweet man as I ordered a Cosmo in my little surf town by the sea. H. ventured out into the chilly night to a bar on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for a friend’s birthday; O was there with his own friends. When H and I called each other the next morning for weekend updates, we shared our news.

H and I had lived together for three years as single women in our early and mid-thirties, respectively. Life was good back then. Many a night, we'd meet after work at one of our neighborhood haunts, order the endive salad and pumpkin ravioli..and a couple of dirty martinis, to boot... and revel in the comfort of it all. We also understood that at some point we'd have to break out of that comfort zone. We joked that if we weren’t careful, we'd find ourselves in our eighties, shorter, wrinkled and still clambering up on the same old bar stools.

Some new moon evenings, we’d wander down West End Avenue to a beautiful church on the Upper West Side. As people strolled their dogs past us, and as the food delivery guys squealed by on their bikes, we'd stand by the curb, sheltered by trees or scaffolding depending on the season, and whisper our dreams for work, creativity and love just loud enough for the other to hear and support. And then we'd walk home arm in arm envisioning those futures, the city's apartment lights and lives surrounding us.

This past July 27^th marked the one-year anniversary of the first Heffalump post. At that time, I was living on the volcano’s slopes with that same young man. Though we lived together and loved each other, our lives were slowly but steadily growing ever more separate. Back in New York, O. had just proposed to H.

One year later, I am living on my own with Petey the dog, a stone’s throw from a stunning, wild, rugged beach. I have just begun to dip my toe back into the world of dating. One year later, H is about be married. One year later, or many years later - depending on when you start counting- life is good. It’s different, but it’s good.

There isn't anything I'd rather be doing in forty-five days than be standing beside H and welcoming in O.